


String from your tether unwinds

by Builder



Series: Whoa Bessie [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Though this has basically nothing to do with the fic, Trans Steve Rogers, Vomiting, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 07:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14539221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: The flu hits and takes Steve down with it.  Bucky's only just getting back on his feet, and it's more then he can manage.





	String from your tether unwinds

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @Builder051. 
> 
> The I think the original prompt was supposed to be fluffy, but I am very fluff-resistant. This is very domestic and a little cute-emotional, but I couldn't help throw a little bit of the dark-emotional in there for my own enjoyment.
> 
> Takes place in the AU-verse from Ignite your bones.

When James wakes, he’s sweating.  He rolls from his side to his back, searching out cool pockets in the sheets with his feet.  It may be approaching summer, but it definitely wasn’t this hot when he went to bed.  He wonders if he’s spiking a fever or shaking off a nightmare, but the aura’s wrong for both.  He doesn’t feel sick.  Or panicked.  More like…alert.  Wary. 

 

James flops his head sideways to get a glimpse of Steve’s blonde hair sticking up in all directions against his pillow.  He’s burrowed with the quilt up to his ear.  James wonders how he’s not burning to death. 

 

A few deep, slow breaths and a visualization technique he learned in therapy carry James toward sleep again.  He feels cooler.  Calmer.  He lets his eyes slide shut as he shifts to be the big spoon behind Steve’s back. 

 

As he draws nearer, though, James’s senses go off.  Something’s not right.  He can feel it before his mind jumps in and recognizes what it is.  Steve’s shaking.  And he’s a furnace under the blankets. 

 

“Stevie?” James murmurs, pushing himself up on his elbow.  “You alright?” 

 

Steve doesn’t answer.  His breathing is measured and peaceful.  That gives James a little solace, but the hairs on the back of his neck still prickle. 

 

No one’s infallible.  Not even Steve.  People get fevers.  Long past things stir in James’s memory, and shadows of a much smaller, weaker Steve swim toward the front of his mind.  He doesn’t remember much of their time together before the war, but he knows this feeling.  It makes his gut clench with worry. 

 

James leans close so his stump shoulder presses against Steve’s from behind.  He can practically feel the ache coming off him in waves.  James brushes his nose against the back of Steve’s neck.  “It’s…gonna be alright,” he breathes. 

 

***

 

When James opens his eyes next, everything is not alright.  He’s alone in the bed, and that confuses him.  Scares him, too.  The light’s on in the bathroom, and the sound of retching echoes off the tile and bounces into the bedroom.

 

Even though James is staring at the partially shut door, his mind is telling him he should be seeing the inner flap of a tent.  One of the guys in his unit must’ve gotten food poisoning again. 

 

But that’s not right.  Everything is too clean to be the barracks in the middle of the desert. 

 

He’s in an apartment.  Was there a party last night?  He wonders if Steve’s late for class.

 

But he’s not in college anymore, either.  James scrubs his hand over is face and goes to push himself up with his other arm, but he just falls over his stump shoulder.  “Fuck,” he mutters, sitting up from his face-plant.  At least it did the trick of reminding him where and when he presently is. 

 

There’s more gagging from the bathroom.  Right.  Steve’s sick. 

 

 _Steve’s sick_.  He’d been running a fever last night.  James gets up and taps on the door even though it’s cracked.  “Stevie?” he calls.

 

“Yeah, I’m ok,” Steve’s choked voice replies.  James watches his shadow shift as he flushes the toilet and turns to the sink.  Water runs, but doesn’t drown out Steve’s ragged coughing.

 

After a minute, both sounds cut out and Steve pulls open the door.  “Hey,” he whispers.  “You alright, Buck?”

 

“That’s…” James starts, shaking his head.  “No.  I’m supposed to ask you.”  He bites his lip, then asks, “You sick, Stevie?”

 

“I…”  Steve brings his hand up to rub the back of his neck.  “Yeah.  It’s probably just a bug.  I’ll be alright.”  He tilts his head to look around James at the clock on the bedside table.  “Shit.”

 

James looks too.  It’s late.  Almost 9:00. 

 

Steve starts toward the dresser.  “I’m gonna call in, but I’ll drive you to the VA.  Let me just put something on…”  He trails off and tightly grips the drawer pull.  He sways slightly, then regains his balance.

 

“No, lie back down.”  James points to the bed.  “You’re…you can’t…”

 

“I don’t want you to miss therapy,” Steve says.  He pinches the bridge of his nose and squints.  James can see sweat breaking out over his forehead. 

 

“No…”  James shakes his head.  Steve’s barely a step from bed and he looks like he’s going to pass out.  Or throw up again.  James doesn’t want to imagine how he’ll feel walking out of the apartment and getting in the car.

 

“You should go to your appointments.  Plus, I don’t think you should hang around with me and risk catching this.”

 

“Steve—”

 

“It’s ok.  I’m ok,” he insists.

 

“I don’t want to go,” James says in a rush.  “Not when you’re…”  A protective instinct flares in James’s chest.  He wonders how long it’s lain dormant.  Looking out for Steve feels so natural. 

 

“You don’t have to worry about me, Buck.  I don’t want you to mess up your routine or anything.”  But as the words leave Steve’s mouth, he steps backward to perch on the edge of the bed.  “I’m fine.  I promise.” 

 

He’s gone chalk-white and looks anything but.  James narrows his eyes.  “Lie down, ok?” he says.  He reaches out to cup Steve’s cheek, which is roughly the temperature of a blistering afternoon in Kandahar. 

 

“Lemme just…get my bearings…”  Steve squeezes James’s hand between his own.  “I’m alright.”

 

“Yeah,” James says with a sigh.  “But…you don’t always have to be.  I can help you, too, you know?”

 

Steve smiles, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed.  “I know.”

 

***

 

It takes some convincing, but Steve finally slides under the covers.  James retreats into the kitchen.  He doesn’t feel confident making coffee by himself, so he settles for a glass of water and a granola bar to take the edge off his own headache. 

 

He tears the bar’s wrapper with his teeth and swallows it in three bites, then tries and fails to get the cap off the ibuprofen.  So what if he has to live with the pangs of withdrawal from his caffeine addiction?  He’s more worried about not being able to offer any to Steve. 

 

It’s been all of 20 minutes since James left him to nap, but he can’t help tiptoeing past the bedroom door to peer in at Steve’s huddled form.  He’s curled on his side, with his knees tucked up to his chest from the looks of it.  He doesn’t look comfortable.  But not exactly uncomfortable, either.  He just looks sick.  And young, James thinks.  He looks more like the Steve that needed protecting.  James wishes he could do more for him. 

 

The best he can manage is to go back into the living room and send a flurry of texts.  He carefully taps out a message to Steve’s boss and his own lead therapist first.   _Hello Nick_ , he types.   _Steve is sick today and won’t be in.  I’m staying home with him, so I’ll have to cancel our 2:00.  Sorry.  Thanks, James._

He hits Natasha, Wanda, and Sam next.  These messages come shorter and chattier, more as status updates than apologies.  James is supposed to have a PT appointment with Sam in a few minutes, and he sends him a sad-faced emoji with his cancellation notice. 

 

 _Keep the germs quarantined t your place_ , Sam replies.

 

Then, a moment later _, Seriously tho.  Hope he feels better.  Want me to bring by some dinner later?_

 

James considers it.  His instinct is to say he’s got it covered, but he knows he doesn’t.   _I’ll let you know_ , he types.

 

Sam sends back a thumbs-up.  Then the words.   _Srsly, tho.  Let me know if you need anything._

Bucky nods at the screen. 

 

He gets himself another glass of water, then fills one for Steve as well.  He leaves it on the bedside table and stands there hovering, wondering what else he can do.  A strip of Steve’s pale forehead is just visible between his bangs and the quilt pulled over his face.  James wants to lay his palm on it, but he hesitates.  Testing the fever again won’t do any good.  He’ll only disturb Steve with his fumbling touch.  He lets out a quiet sigh and heads back to the living room.

 

***

 

James is re-reading the same article in Time magazine for the fourth time and still not taking in the words when a sound finally comes from down the hall.  A few hurried footsteps.  A heavy thump. 

 

The magazine hits the floor and James takes off down the hall, adding his own noise to the flurry of motion.  “Stevie?”  He does his best to keep his voice even.  “You ok?”  The bed is a mess of blankets, and the door to the bathroom is open.  Steve hunches over the toilet.  He’s shaking hard; the outline of his shoulders practically blurs in James’s vision.  Steve gags and sputters.  He sounds empty. 

 

He looses another painful retch, and James sinks to his knees at Steve’s side.  “Hey,” James whispers.  He eases his hand onto Steve’s bicep.  The arm is thicker with new muscle, but the gesture is familiar.  “You’re alright.”

 

Steve rides another dry heave, then slowly turns to look at James.  He takes his time with a heavy swallow and blinks.  His eyes glisten with the haze of fever.  “Bucky?” he rasps.

 

“Mm.  Yeah.”  James nods. 

 

“But…What…?”  Steve’s face slowly rearranges into an expression of confusion.

 

“I just…want to make sure you’re ok,” James murmurs.  The heat coming off Steve is intense, even though the fabric of his t-shirt. 

 

Steve blinks slowly.  “I…you’re not…?”

 

“I’m not what?”  Bewilderment flutters in James’s heartbeat, making it feel faster and flightier than it should.  He’s the healthy one today, but Steve’s the strong one.  The one who always knows what’s going on and what’s real, even when James isn’t so sure.  Even if he’s just down with the flu, it’s frightening to see Steve down.  Period. 

 

“You’re…you’re gone,” Steve breathes.  Mucous rattles in his throat with his shallow inhales and exhales.  “You’re not here.” 

 

“What?”  James’s voice catches.  “No, no, Stevie.”  The words tumble out in a rush.  “I’m here.  I’m…” 

 

It’s the fever talking.  James is sure of it.  He’s here, on the bathroom floor, clinging to Steve’s dry heat.  He knows where he is.  Steve is confused. 

 

“You’re sick, Stevie,” James whispers.  “I’m here.  I promise.”

 

“I…no…”  Steve’s Adam’s apple works up and down.  He opens his mouth, but nothing happens.  “You’re not here.” 

 

“Steve.”  James swallows his own rising panic. 

 

“No.  You’re not here.”  Steve breaks off into a dry heave again.  He strains so long and hard James isn’t sure what to do.  He tries squeezing Steve’s arm again, but this time he gets no response.

 

***

 

Sam’s a trooper, and shows up 15 minutes after James calls.

 

“Don’t panic, alright?” he says as soon as James lets him.  “I know that’s hard, but everything’s gonna be ok.” 

 

James bites his lip and nods.  He doesn’t trust himself with words.  He just motions for Sam to follow him down the hall.

 

Steve’s on his side on the bathroom floor now, one arm curled under his head and the other around his stomach.  He doesn’t stir when James and Sam approach.  The only sign of life is the subtle rise and fall of his ribcage. 

 

“Steve,” Sam says, swinging his backpack off his shoulder and squatting behind Steve’s shoulder.  “James tells me you’re pretty sick.”

 

“Huh.”  It’s so quiet James can barely hear it.

 

Sam tests Steve’s temperature with a palm to the forehead, and his sharp exhale confirms what James already knows.  “Yeah, you’re roasting,” he says.  “When’s the last time you kept down fluids?”

 

Steve doesn’t answer, so Sam looks to James. 

 

“I…”  James shakes his head.  “He didn’t…I didn’t push…”  Panic starts to rise.  What if Steve’s fever is too high for him to recover?  It’s all his fault.  He used to be able to take care of Steve, but he can’t anymore.  If he loses Steve because of it…

 

James doesn’t realize he’s hyperventilating until Sam grounds him with a touch on his knee.  He looks up from the floor and shakes his head.  “Try not to work yourself up.  He’s gonna be ok.”  Sam nods to back himself up.  “He’s probably just dehydrated.  It’s got him a little mixed up, that’s all.”

 

“But…what if it’s bad?  He doesn’t know who I am.  He thinks I’m gone…” 

 

“James,” Sam says firmly.  “It’s ok.”  He reaches into his backpack and pulls out two bottles of Gatorade.  Sam pops the top on one and sets it near Steve’s head.  He uncaps the other and holds it out to James.  “Have you eaten today?”

 

“I…yeah.  This morning,” James says.  “But…Steve…”

 

“It’s almost dinnertime.  You’re not doing him any favors if you don’t take care of yourself.”  Sam proffers the sports drink again.  “Here.  Have this.  Get yourself something to eat.  It’s gonna be ok.”

 

James accepts the bottle, but doesn’t move.  “I…don’t want to leave him.”

 

“Give him a few minutes to get hydrated while you take care of yourself,” Sam says.  “You can do this, James.”

 

“I… alright.”  James walks backward as long as he can, keeping his gaze zeroed in on the shallow rise and fall of Steve’s chest.

 

***

 

James downs the Gatorade in a few long gulps.  As soon as the liquid hits his stomach, he realizes he’s starving.  Sam’s right.  He’s been neglecting himself, and it’s not doing any good. 

 

A fresh wave of hopelessness comes on as James struggles with the wrapper on a granola bar.  What is he doing?  What kind of progress has he made with his recovery when all it takes is one little upset for him to forget how to eat lunch?  And for Steve to forget him altogether.  He doesn’t like the fragility of it. 

 

Now that he actually has energy, James is practically buzzing.  He can’t sit still.  He paces in a square around the living room, watching the second hand on the clock tick around the face over and over again.  The memory of Steve’s blank face is burned into James’s brain.  He doesn’t want to think of him lying on the bathroom floor, dazed and thinking he’s alone.  That’s not the Steve he knows.  Not the one he wants to remember.

 

James knows he should give Sam some space to work, but he can’t take being alone, not with his thoughts spiraling.  He pads quietly down the hall, not trembling anymore, but still anxious.  If Steve still doesn’t recognize him…  He forces himself to stop considering the possibility. 

 

“Um,” James says to announce his presence in the doorway to the bathroom. 

 

“Hey,” Sam says, looking over his shoulder.  “You feel better?”

 

“Yeah, uh,” James stutters over his words, even though he’s not sure what he wants to say.  “Is…um…?”

 

Sam’s face breaks into an understanding smile.  He shifts to the side so James can see past him. 

 

Steve’s slumped against the wall, pale and shivery, but sweating again.  He rests the half-drunk bottle of Gatorade on his knee and breaks into an exhausted grin.  “Hey, Buck,” he whispers. 

 

James feels the corners of his mouth tick upward into a grin.  “Hey.”


End file.
